


Assent

by theLiterator



Series: Zevran/Alistair 'verse [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M, Self-Harm, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-08 18:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/pseuds/theLiterator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was an NC-17 V-Day pressie for anyone who wanted to read it. Zevran/Master Ignacio pre-game. Dub con... like everything else I write, fo sho.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Assent

  
The poison coursed through him, blinding agony radiating from the slice through his soft belly. He moaned, writhed away from the seeming hundreds of hands holding him down.

"Hold still," someone said above him, familiar comfort in a liquid honey voice. "Hold still," and "Someone get a Master! You, get the healer!"

Then more hands, touching the wound, pressing, hurting; he stifled a scream, clawed at the hands.

"Be still, idioto, be still while the healer does his job."

Zevran recognized the voice, Maestro Arainai, and he strove to sit up, to stop them from hurting him more.

A hand, stronger than the others, presses his chest, flattens him against the ground. "Be still or I will have you whipped when the healer is finished," he snarled, not an empty threat.

He tried, he strained to hold still, but the poison burned as it was healed, burned worse than when it had spread, and he screamed like an untrained child, he screamed and threw off the hands and... then it was over. He opened his eyes, panted for breath.

He met the disgusted stare of a man wearing all black, the only person to have ever claimed him, and closed his eyes again.

"When you are up to it, you should go see Maestro Ignacio," Maestro Arainai said coldly.

He nodded, and felt outrage, sharpening and twisting inside him like the poison had. He did not deserve this, did not deserve to be given to Ignacio's whims like a favor, as a punishment. He forced himself to stand.

Ignacio made him stand and wait, the whip in pride of place across the heavy desk. He stared at Zevran, a flat expression on his face.

"You're an idiot," he said finally. Zevran gritted his teeth.

"So I have been told."

Ignacio snarled then, pressed in close to Zevran, forced him to look up to meet his eyes. Zevran refused to be cowed. "You are too flippant. You _beg_ to be punished."

Zevran said nothing.

Ignacio finally nodded, a curt, dismissive gesture. "Vincenzo is dead."

Zevran nodded. The news had been on everyone's lips for at least an hour.

"I am going to be promoted. As his replacement."

"And...I suppose you feel congratulations are in order?" Ignacio backhanded him, sharp, casual. Zevran ducked his head. He'd deserved that.

"Arainai owes me, still, from that incident. If you... make it worth my while, I will collect on that. You could come to Ferelden, to Denerim with me. No politicking, no maestros to pit you against your friends and lovers. Just me."

Zevran looked up again. Ignacio was offering him an out. "Maestro?" he asked tentatively, licking his lips.

"Of course, you will need to learn to control your tongue in my presence, but... we can work on that once we are there, I am sure." The way Ignacio's eyes roved over him made Zevran want to shudder, to hide away. But he knew how to appease Ignacio's appetites, and it involved a quick tongue and sharp, suppressed cries of pain he no longer felt.

"Of course, maestro," he ceded, ducking his head in feigned servility.

"Good, that's settled." Zevran had a bare moment to consider which alliances he'd just sent careening out of alignment with his assent here, before—"Now, we had a purpose here, I believe. Remove your shirt."

Zevran did, quickly and efficiently, discarding it without reluctance. It was ruined, torn and bloodstained, and a shirt would do nothing to protect against Ignacio's whip, he knew.

Ignacio laughed as he landed the first stroke, a low, cruel noise. Zevran hissed out a breath through his teeth, focused on his breath, steady and deep. Ignacio knew this technique, of course, and deliberately timed each blow so there was no rhythm, so Zevran's breath was forced from him at the wrong times, waiting, his own breath heavy with anticipation. Zevran could feel blood seeping from several welts before Ignacio won the game, and he moaned inadvertently.

It gave Ignacio impetus to continue, and before long Zevran was hard pressed to keep quiet, which was what the maestro wanted.

After he was deemed suitably penitent, Ignacio simply stopped and coiled the whip back on the desk.

"You did well, my dear," he said softly, running a hand over Zevran's back. "And now we seal the deal, yes?"

Zevran bit back a retort, nodded instead, allowed himself to be pushed over the desk. He unfastened his trousers without prompting, let out a tiny sigh in relief when Ignacio did not rebuke him.

Ignacio's hands were warm and just a touch too rough as he prepared Zevran, aroused him and hurt him and entered him, a heavy sigh in Zevran's ear as he pressed too much weight on a sore back.

"Very good, my dear," he said, kissed along Zevran's neck, sniffed Zevran's hair. Zevran moved with him, moaning in time to his thrusts, perfect through years of practice.


End file.
